XVIII.


Four hours later he was on his way towards his home. His tarantass
rolled swiftly along the soft cross-road. There had been no rain for
a fortnight. The atmosphere was pervaded by a light fog of milky hue,
which hid the distant forests from sight, while a smell or burning
filled the air. A number of dusky clouds with blurred outlines stood
out against a pale blue sky, and lingered, slowly drawn. A strongish
wind swept by in an unbroken current, bearing no moisture with it, and
not dispelling the great heat. His head leaning back on the cushions,
his arms folded across his breast, Lavretsky gazed at the furrowed
plains which opened fanwise before him, at the cytisus shrubs, at the
crows and rooks which looked sideways at the passing carriage with
dull suspicion, at the long ridges planted with mugwort, wormwood, and
mountain ash. He gazed--and that vast level solitude, so fresh and
so fertile, that expanse of verdure, and those sweeping slopes, the
ravines studded with clumps of dwarfed oaks, the grey hamlets, the
thinly-clad birch trees--all this Russian landscape, so-long by him
unseen, filled his mind with feelings which were sweet, but at the
same time almost sad, and gave rise to a certain heaviness of heart,
but one which was more akin to a pleasure than to a pain. His thoughts
wandered slowly past, their forms as dark and ill-defined as those
of the clouds, which also seemed vaguely wandering there on high. He
thought of his childhood, of his mother, how they brought him to her
011 her death-bed, and how, pressing his head to her breast, she
began to croon over him, but looked up at Glafira Petrovna and became
silent. He thought of his father, at first robust, brazen-voiced,